


Start Here

by Wolfshadow17



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A happy ending is so far off, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Extremis, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No One Is Okay, No seriously the slowest of all burns, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Psychological Trauma, Redemption, Self-Hatred, Skrull(s), Slow Burn, Some comics compliance, Team as Family, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6968896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfshadow17/pseuds/Wolfshadow17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When is a monster not a monster?</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Oh, when you love it</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Oh, when you are the reason it has become so mangled</i>
</p>
<p>Steve: <i>Start by pulling him out of the fire and / Hoping that he will forget the smell</i></p>
<p>Bucky: <i>Here are your upturned hands / Give them to him and watch how he prays</i></p>
<p>Tony: <i>Something that forgets what his hands are for when they / Aren’t shaking</i></p>
<p>Or</p>
<p>The far-reaching consequences and resolution of the Civil War through the triumvirate of Steve, Bucky, and Tony, as guided with "Start Here" by Caitlyn Siehl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start Here

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will be a long, wild ride - with hopefully frequent updates (for those of you who are also readers of my other Avengers fic, "Forgive Us Our Trespasses, We Know Not What We Do," I thank you for your amazing, saintly patience and promise that the resolution is coming quite soon - I just had to get this fic out).
> 
> The idea for this was inspired by Catilyn Siehl's poem "Start Here" http://alonesomes.tumblr.com/post/78510570406/start-by-pulling-him-out-of-the-fire-and-hoping  
> I highly recommend her work.

* * *

 

_Start by pulling him out of the fire and_

_hoping that he will forget the smell_

 

* * *

 

Now:

 

“Let me get this straight. Not only did you neglect to inform _anyone_ of your travel plans. You again failed to bring in Rogers and Barnes.” 

“Uh, yes. Yes, that would be it. By golly, you have a gift for summarizing Ross.” 

“Do you think this is funny, Stark?” 

“Not my first choice of word, but hey, you said it.”

“There is absolutely no humor in this situation. In fact, you should be quite happy that you’re sitting there _without_ handcuffs.” 

_Ah, there it is_. Tony tries to keep his body from visibly tensing. It’s been five hours of being questioned, of repeating his story ( _lies_ ) again and again. 

He’s fucking exhausted and to be quite honest, his body is _aching_. Steve’s shield had come down repeatedly without impunity – the alloy of his suit had yielded in the end, and with it, a few of his ribs.

Belatedly, he realizes that Ross had been speaking.

“Are you even paying attention?”

“If we’re being honest – and we are, I mean, come on, I’m under oath or something right? – yeah you lost me there for a minute. Or more. Listen, you’ve had me here for hours, repeating the same spiel for your cronies–”

Ross slams his hands on the table and his smile is practically sadistic because Tony _flinches_.

_Godfuckingdammit_.

“You’re playing a dangerous game. A very dangerous, very _costly_ game, with powerful people. You’re out of your depth, alone in the front lines, without any possibility for reinforcements.”

“You know, all these military metaphors are getting old.”

Tony wills his voice to be steady, to be iron strong because Ross is a fucking bastard and he knows just where to pull the strings so the whole frays.

Ross leans forward, all disappointment and frustrated fury and vicious desire to wound, and Tony, for a moment, feels like he’s a kid again, being torn to shreds by his careless father. 

“Do you think you’re protecting them, Tony? Do you think they’ll care? They left you _behind_.”

“Are we done here?”

Ross leans back, smug smile on his face as he walks to the door and Tony wants to strangle him, wants to punch him, _wants–_

“You’re on thin ice Stark. We’ve been very forgiving, but our patience has its limits. It’s time you start making allies – being surrounded by enemies must be tiring.”

The door shuts with a suffocating finality and Tony realizes that he’d stopped breathing.

* * *

 

Tony feels…

He doesn’t know what this mess of emotions is. Doesn’t know beyond the numbness that he’s willing to settle over himself. It’s – everything’s _fine_ , as long as he doesn’t look to closely at what’s happened, at how _now_ compares to _before_. At what comes _next_. 

Too much depends on him keeping it together and if he’s not careful he thinks he’s fucking drowning.

The pressure is coming from all sides and one misstep will send him into high-tide, where the sharks wait, bloodthirsty.

_But can he actually do it?_  

Ross had said– 

_Fuck Ross._  

“FRIDAY. Start the remote security overhaul for the Raft. In fact, re-run it until you’re tired.” 

“Sir, the security overhaul is comprehensive. While it is undergoing updates, the integrity of Raft surveillance and defenses will be heavily compromised.” 

“Duly noted.”

* * *

 

  _Then:_

 

_Steve is struggling, he’s hurting bad, and nothing kills Bucky more than that. Steve, the punk, of course tries to hide it, tries to be brave, always trying to be brave. But Bucky will be damned if he lets Steve get away with it, if he lets him suffer alone._

_He settles a gentle hand on Steve’s bony shoulder, and squeezes._

_“You can tell me anything ya know.”_

_Steve casts his head sideways and just when Bucky thinks he’ll keep on closing up, his hand comes up and grips Bucky’s fiercely, like it’s the last thing he can hold on to._

_The sheer desperation catches the breath in his throat and Bucky stays still as Steve’s shoulders begin to shake slightly, stubbornly hiding his face even as he speaks through his tears._

_“I still can’t believe she’s gone Buck. I can’t – I keep seeing her, when I sleep. I keep seeing the way she chocked, how she couldn’t breathe, how no one could do a damn thing. It’s like she was drowning. And I – I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t save her.”_

_Steve has always been a bleeding-heart, all too willing to take responsibilities that don’t belong to him upon his shoulders, a scrawny Atlas with a never-say-never attitude._

_And Bucky recognizes this moment for what it is – it’s a battle for Steve’s very soul, for his lion heart and his faith in himself. A battle that Bucky cannot and will not allow to be lost._

_“You couldn’t have done anything, Stevie. You did what you could, ya hear me? You did what you could.”_

_Steve still won’t meet his eyes and Bucky slides off the bed easily, coming in front of Steve and he kneels there, unashamed._

_“You loved her with all that you were and she did the same, and there was nothing else you could have done. Do you understand?”_

_Steve looks at him, finally, thankfully, and Bucky smiles, all too aware of how raw his voice has gotten, of how much he’s opened himself up._

_“And for what it’s worth, you’re not alone, you punk. I don’t know how long we’ve got on this crummy earth, but, I’m with you ‘til the end of the line yeah?"_

_Steve smiles back, and then he’s sorta laughing through his tears._

_“And you call me sappy.”_

_Bucky stands and punches him in the arm._

* * *

 

 Now:

 

The Wakandan landscape is even more beautiful at night. Maybe it’s the way the moonlight highlights the constant humid fog that surrounds the jungle, shimmering off the millions and millions of droplets of water. 

And yet, there he sits, sketchbook page still blank.

Steve gives it a few more minutes, changing the grip on his pencil and smoothing out the page again, like those motions will be conducive to him actually drawing something.

With a sigh, he closes the book, and sets it on his windowsill.

He’s fought the itch for a few hours. Good enough.

With a silence he’s sure T’Challa would be proud of, he makes his way out of his room and into the hall, allowing a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the near-darkness.

Then, he makes his way forward slowly, pausing at each door.

He tilts his head, millimeters from the wood – the serum allows him to catch most any sound – a mumble, a snore, a sigh, the rustle of the sheets as a body turns in them.

It takes him longer than it should, because he lingers at each door, verifying once, twice, thrice, that the person within is still breathing, alive. _There_.

Once he’s satisfied, urge fed until the following night, he returns to his room, gets into his bed, closes his eyes, and begs a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

_Then:_

 

_Tony all but runs when the opportunity presents itself. He figures he's been present for the socially acceptable time, figures that when the tabloids start talking tomorrow they'll all least chalk up his sudden absence to grief._

_And boy is he drowning in it._

_It's hard to breathe, hard to look ahead and focus his vision on the now rather than the images his brain keeps conjuring._

_He's always had an active imagination._

_Before he knows what he's doing, he finds himself in his father's study, stumbling his way to the liquor cabinet, plucking a bottle at random._

_He thinks he'll miss his father in terms of an opportunity gone - Howard had always, always said he'd never amount to anything, anything brave, anything good. And now Tony will never have the chance to prove him wrong._

_But, his mom, his mom -_

_\- he grips the bottle harder, tilts it up and drinks and drinks like the most parched of men, so thirsty for something the alcohol will never give him._

_Then hands wrap around him, and for all their gentleness, Tony flinches hard._

_"Tony, please. It's okay, it's okay. Shh. It's okay."_

_"Aunt Peggy?"_

_His voice sounds wrecked, hoarse and wet - and that's when he realizes that all this time, he'd been crying._

_He barely registers Peggy's hand around his, slowly prying his fingers from the bottle._

_"Oh, Tony."_

_Tony tries to take a breath, feels it clog up in his throat._

_"I - I c-can't. I cant. I can't."_

_Peggy pulls him in, and her arms around him make him feel safe, like port in a storm._

_"I know you’re tired, Tony. But you're a fighter. You'll always be a fighter."_

_And Tony closes his eyes as he takes a breath, then another, then another._

* * *

 

Now:

 

“Clunky and prehistoric. Sounds about right.”

Tony tosses the phone on his workbench.

“FRIDAY, scan and project, you know the drill.”

The schematics come up, displaying overlaid, complex circuits that belie the simplicity of the phone casing.

“Scratch prehistoric. Quite modern and quite beautiful, ooh la la, I want to buy it dinner. I mean, I knew Wakandan tech was pretty up there but this is just gorgeous. How long do you think it’ll take you to get in?”

“Based on preliminary scans of the software encryptions, I estimate an hour at most. After decryption has been completed, should I have it destroyed?”

“Nah. Store it and leave it.”

And fuck if his eyes don’t immediately travel to the far wall of his lab.

The scratched metal of the shield is cold.

“Hey, Fri?”

“Yes boss?”

“Run another sweep of the compound’s security.”

“Everything’s good boss.”

“Living quarters?”

“The vitals of both occupants are normal.”

“Thanks Fri.”

* * *

 

“It was his decision.”

Steve startles at the sound of T’Challa’s voice, turning, placing his hands behind him because then maybe the king won’t notice the fine tremors that shake them.

_Leftover adrenaline_ , he tells himself ( _lie_ ). 

“Are the others settling in?”

“They are fine, my assistants are helping them get acquainted with their new living quarters.”

“I – thank you. For all of this. I know that having us here won’t be easy for you.” 

“I am simply doing what I believe is right. As was your friend.” 

Steve looks away. 

“Do you think…do you think he can be helped?” 

_I need him. I need him, I need him, and if he’s lost then God–_

“The scientists will put their best efforts into finding a way. But, in the meantime, you must accept his decision, and must understand that it in no way undermines what you have given for him.”

Steve feels exposed, too easy to read, too _weak_.

He should be with the others, helping them settle in, gathering them together to come up with a plan, giving them hope that things will work out-  _Clint and Scott have children wondering where their fathers are_ _and what will happen with their families?_

“Breathe, Captain.” 

When did T’Challa get so close?

“You must look ahead now. Let the past settle.”

But that’s the problem isn’t it? Steve can’t let go of the past. It’s not done with him and he’s not done with it.

For some reason, that makes him think of the concept of mutually assured destruction.

_No. That’s you and ~~Tony~~ Stark._

“Have you heard anything from Iron Man?”

T’Challa’s brow furrows almost imperceptibly, and his expression is hooded when he speaks.

“No. But I have confirmed that he made it back to the U.S. from Serbia.” 

There’s more that T’Challa wants to say, but he purses his lips and Steve knows that he has no place to ask for more. 

Instead the Wakandan king reaches forward, handing him a simple woven bag.

“I had this retrieved from the Berlin base. Perhaps you will find something useful. If it is relevant to reversing Sergeant Barnes’ conditioning, please let me know. I did not wish to intrude on his privacy nor yours.”

Steve looks inside, and sees a collection of items he remembers from Bucky’s apartment in Bucharest. Pamphlets and maps and bits of paper and the journal he’d barely had time to glance at.

When he looks up, T’Challa has already left. He’ll find him later and thank him.

For now, he takes the bag to his bed and dumps its contents onto the comforter.

There’s another journal – it looks worn, old, larger than the Moleskine Bucky was using.

He picks it up and opens it to a random middle. Bucky’s handwriting is mixed with someone else’s scrawl – had he been trying to decode a message? 

Steve turns to the front page and promptly drops the journal when he sees just who it belonged to. 

_Howard A.W. Stark_.

* * *

 

The second meeting with Ross is worse than the first. And that’s saying something considering the fact that the first go around they heckled him into the small room right after retrieving him from Serbia with nothing more than a few paper towels to wipe the blood from his face and nose.

This time, Ross has them put on the handcuffs and hook him up to a polygraph.

It’s uncomfortable and the room is hot and there are no windows and two agents flank him so closely, like they’re afraid he might just bolt.

Ross is trying to intimidate him, to box him in and make him think he has no recourse, no escape.

But the joke's on him cause Tony’s been feeling trapped for a long time, and this barely blips on his radar.

Still, he’s only human, and as they push on to hour seven, he feels like passing out from a mixture of boredom and fatigue. 

_No, he has no idea how on earth they got into the Raft._

_No, he has no idea where they could have gone._

_No, he has no idea who all was involved._

_No, no, no._

When they let him go, it’s all he can do to stumble into the nearest bathroom, where the vomiting does nothing to alleviate the tightness he feels in his chest. 

It’s there, back against a stall door, that he finally allows FRIDAY to run a diagnostic. 

His watch beeps when the AI’s finished and her voice is calm as she relays what Tony’s figured. He had his suspicions. He just didn’t think it would be happening so soon. 

_“Are you all right?”_

_“Always”_

“The events of the past year have placed undue stress on your body, particularly the organs which suffered the greatest in the presence of the shrapnel and the arc reactor. Your heart specially, requires immediate medical intervention.”

“Long-term prognosis?”

“Sir,” And FRIDAY’s voice dips low in concern and grief, “You are in imminent danger of heart failure.” 

Tony’s first ( _foolishly naive_ ) thought is that he should call Steve.

Tony’s second ( _traitorously weak_ ) thought is that he’s so very, very tired and that _this_ , this would let him just– 

Tony’s third thought is, oddly enough, a Robert Frost line; _but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep._  

He just has to hang on a little while longer, scrape together what’s left. 

He flushes the toilet and uses the toilet paper dispenser to lever himself up. 

“Pull out the Extremis files and start running simulations. I want a good head start when I get back to the lab.”

* * *

 

“The Soviets certainly knew how to keep a secret.”

Ross surveys the room, watching his agents carefully, rolling his shoulders to keep the cold Serbian air from locking his muscles.

Beside him, Everett Ross also watches the proceedings with a trained eye. 

“Collection of tissue, organ and marrow samples of the five bodies will be done in an hour. It’ll take a little longer to disassemble the cryogenic chambers. Should we send them to Stark Industries?” 

Ross laughs – _Everett’s a goddamn fool_. 

“Stark is under probation pending dismissal for suspicion of aiding criminals and you want to send this tech to his company?” 

Everett stiffens and Ross grins at him, all sharp edges because Everett isn’t a true _visionary_ and if Ross could leave him to rot in Siberia he’d do it in a heartbeat. 

“Don’t get your panties wadded up. We have a new consultant we’re trying out until this whole mess is sorted out. Have everything sent to OsCorp.”

* * *

 

_Then:_

 

_“Late night?”_

_On most days, he and Tony can barely go a few hours without some sort of verbal confrontation. But tonight – and he feels so goddamn pathetic even acknowledging it – Steve feels the gnawing loneliness so acutely, he’ll take any company, even that of the teammate he fears he’ll never be able to fully know._

_“You could say that.”_

_The nightmares have left him feeling raw – it doesn’t help that they’re so vivid, and God he swears he’s back, swears he hears the no-nonsense tones of Peggy’s voice, Howard’s light tenor, the soft roll of Bucky’s laugh._

_It’s in these twilight hours that his panic heightens, a terror of being unmoored, a crippling vision that he’ll wake up and everything will have passed him by again, left him behind, alone._

_“Well, uh, you’re in my spot.”_

_The complete non sequitur takes him by surprise, jolting him from his somber thoughts by its sheer incongruence._

_“What?”_

_“Jesus Rogers, do you need hearing aids? That spot your patriotic hiney is currently warming, is in actuality,_ my _spot.”_

_The inventor parks himself right beside Steve, like he’s waiting for him to move and anger begins to brew. He doesn’t need this. Not right now. If Stark thinks–_

_Tony places a hand on his shoulder, squeezes once and lets go with a put-upon sigh._

_“But, I guess I can let you borrow it, interest-free. You seem to need it more than I do tonight, and that’s just a contest you don’t want to win, Steve, let me tell you. Also, are you cold? Do you get cold? Jarvis, honey bear, turn up the heat.”_

_Steve realizes that he’s been sitting there curled in on himself, and he immediately straightens._

_“It’s no biggie. Just cause I keep my floors cooler doesn’t mean you can’t warm yours up a bit.”_

_“I – thanks. I guess. I mean, I knew that.”_

_Tony just rolls his eyes and then he looks away, begins to fidget._

_Steve decides he’s outstayed his welcome and pushes his legs down to get up–_

_“I keep it cold because it’s not hot.”_

_Again, the strangeness of the statement pulls his attention, rooting him there._

_Tony meets his eyes briefly, before looking down at his hands, which he’s now clasped together._

_It strikes Steve that it looks like he’s about to launch into a prayer._

_“Well, that was a whole boatload of stupid. What I mean is…I like to keep it cold, because it’s the opposite of heat. Because, if, say, my brain decides to rerun Afghanistan’s funniest home videos, I wake up and my body informs me that, hey, you’re cold, so you can’t possibly be there. Well – the cave was cold sometimes, but with the fire and the smelting and– you know what I mean.”_

_Tony’s voice has gone dry, unmasked by sarcasm or spite or charm. It’s uncharacteristically naked, laid open and vulnerable._

_Steve recognizes what Tony is offering and that, that alone is enough to sear away the frost the nightmares have wrought inside his head._

_“Does it work?”_

_Tony shrugs. “I don’t have statistically sound data at this time, but, it helps sometimes at least. There’s no harm in trying, right?”_

_He smiles at the billionaire, notices for the first time the mussed hair and what appears to be a thin line of dried drool across his left cheek._

_He’d been asleep already._

_Steve thinks he can learn how to differentiate now, how to look past Tony Stark to Tony._

_“Right.”_

* * *

 


End file.
